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But if one passes him by, following the track of the novelist's art elsewhere, and then returns to him with certain definite conclusions, his aspect is remarkable in quite a new way. His badness is perhaps as obvious as before; there is nothing fresh to discover about that. His greatness, however, wears a different look; it is no longer the plain and open surface that it was.
At the end of the following year, however, in December 1724, Davidge Gould resumes his trusteeship, and with the record of that fact the disclosures yielded by these ancient parchments as to Henry Fielding's stormy boyhood come to an end. From these records it becomes possible to gain some idea of the surroundings of the great novelist's early youth.
Indeed, the novelist's own method of work was a reversal of the natural alternation of regular periods of activity and repose. He not only, as he told all his correspondents with wearisome iteration, burned the midnight oil, but would keep up these eighteen or twenty hours' daily labour for weeks altogether, until some novel that he was engaged on was finished.
Lockwood grasped the arm of his friend excitedly and his voice became high-pitched. "Don't you get this old man?" he argued. "Don't you get the figure of him as an artist? Lord, man, he's the greatest artist in the world, I tell you!" Dorn nodded his head, amused and disturbed by the novelist's excitement.
From one of the tables Ogston sauntered over and, noting that Jones and Lennox had not dressed, which he had, and very beautifully, remarked brilliantly: "You fellers aren't going to the opera, are you? It's the last night." It was another safe subject and Jones smiled falsely at him. "But you are, eh? Sit down." Ogston put a hand on the novelist's chair. "No. I'm off to a theatre-party.
Incalculable is the power exercised over humanity by the great magicians of the pen a power ever enlarging its boundaries and increasing its responsibilities as popular education multiplies the number of readers....Yes, it is the novelist's hand which can pour balm on countless human sufferings, or inoculate mankind with the festering poison of a corrupt imagination...." Mrs.
She was proud of her beautiful complexion, and had a drawing-room hung with pale green satin to show it to the best advantage; while, like her mother, she wrote novels, one of which she called "La Canne de M. de Balzac," after the novelist's famous cane adorned with turquoises.
"We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the police," said Ingerman smoothly. "Three years ago, I suppose, my wife spoke of me?" "If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish yes." "I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside this house last night." Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of even a novelist's skill in repartee.
Of much more enduring interest is the great novelist's second line of attack on the problem confronting him. For Henry Fielding's insight was far too profound for him to fail to strike at the root of individual crime, in those conditions which bred the criminal as surely as, to use his own favourite simile, unclean surroundings breed disease.
Of all the amazons of prose fiction who in a long struggle with neglect and disparagement demonstrated the fitness of their sex to follow the novelist's calling, none was more persistent, more adaptable, or more closely identified with the development of the novel than she. Mrs. Behn and Mrs. Manley must be given credit as pioneers in fiction, but much of their best work was written for the stage.